


Sugar Sweet

by scouringsandstone



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Blood, Consent Issues, Disordered Eating, Dysfunctional Relationships, Guilt, Intercrural Sex, Jealousy, Love/Hate, M/M, Manipulation, Masochism, Non-Linear Narrative, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-12 08:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10486935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scouringsandstone/pseuds/scouringsandstone
Summary: That's the funny thing about pain: once it's over, it's hard to recall just how intense it was at the time.





	

He thinks about leaving.

As he pulls into the motel, groceries on the passenger seat, he contemplates turning the car around and driving off, heading out onto the freeway and back across the border alone.

He doesn't know where that would leave him. All he knows is that whenever he has enough time to think about their situation, his instincts tell him to run, to get as far away as possible, and go to ground.

Instead, he cuts the engine. He sits for a while in the parking lot, watching the _vacancy_ sign flickering on and off, smoking his cigarette down to the filter.

A part of him knows that he isn't going anywhere. He thinks maybe he resigned himself to that fact the moment the kid first leaned towards him that night in his apartment.

Larry didn't step back, just let Freddy close the gap between them and press his lips to his, gentle and brief.

"I shouldn't have done that," Freddy whispered against his mouth, drunk and swaying slightly.

"No." 

"Shit, I'm sorry."

"Don't be." And with that, Larry had cupped Freddy's face in his hands, and kissed him again.

Larry takes the keys out of the ignition.

The palm trees rustle in the evening breeze as he gathers up the groceries, locks the car, and heads for their room.

When he gets inside, he sees Freddy sound asleep on the bed, face down, arms and legs spread wide like he's been doing jumping jacks under the sheets. The sheets are pooled around his waist now, and he's tangled in them in a way that doesn't look comfortable.

The TV set in the corner is still on, playing some Spaghetti Western where the handsome sheriff shoots down a bandit while the townsfolk cheer him on.

It's over-simplistic. Reductive. Good versus bad; right versus wrong.

Larry switches it off.

He dumps the bags down on the table, and settles on the edge of the bed beside Freddy.

The kid stirs slightly, twisting his head to one side, and Larry reaches down to brush his hair out of his face.

"Hey," Freddy mumbles into the pillow.

"Hey."

"You're back."

"Yeah. Did I wake you?"

"Mm..." Freddy rolls over onto his back to look at Larry, still groggy. "Where'd you go?"

"That 7-Eleven we passed back there. Why? You miss me?"

"Yeah."

Larry brushes Freddy's ribs with his fingertips.

Freddy looks smaller from this angle; all pale skin, fading bruises, and jutting bones. His belly is concave when he’s stretched out like this.

"You need to eat," Larry tells him. "When was the last time you ate something?"

Freddy sniffs, runs his hands through his hair. "I don’t know. Breakfast."

 _"Breakfast?_ Jesus Christ."

Hunger burns are a distant memory now - Larry has never allowed himself to go without anything, not since he left home - but he can vividly recall the sensation.

"C’mon, get up, take a shower, and we’ll go get something to eat."

"Didn't you buy anything?"

"I bought some snacks for the drive tomorrow."

"Did you get Doritos?" 

"Yeah," says Larry, "For the trip."

"Can't I have them now?"

"Doritos don't constitute a meal," Larry says. His hand is back on Freddy, stroking his belly, his sides.  "You'll make yourself sick, living like that."

"Larry?" Freddy asks, catching Larry's hand in his, pressing it harder against his ribs, where the blues and blacks are turning to mottled greens.

"Don’t," Larry says, trying to pull away.

"Larry, please."

He doesn't understand why Freddy wants to be reminded. Larry sure as hell doesn't. The combination of anger, disgust, and guilt whenever he thinks about that night still makes his gut twist.

The first blow had shocked him as much as it had shocked Freddy.

The sickening crunch as the flank of Larry's gun connected with Freddy's face.

He didn't remember Freddy hitting the floor, or how he wound up on top of him, straddling his waist as he hit him, but he remembered the smell of blood, the dull thunk of Freddy's head striking the tiles, and the way Freddy grabbed at both of his wrists, pleading, apologizing, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Did they train them for that at the academy? Did they teach their new recruits how to fend off an attack from a man thirty pounds heavier? How about a man who was armed and drunk and bitterly betrayed?

If their positions had been reversed, Larry would have gone for his eyes. Freddy didn't. Freddy just held him there, helpless, buying time.

For a few seconds, Larry was convinced he was going to kill him. He was going to pull free and keep raining down punches until the kid stopped crying out, stopped moving under him, stopped staring up with that terrible mixture of fear and guilt in his eyes.

But Larry's hands had shaken then just as they are shaking now.

"Hey," Freddy breathes, bringing Larry's hand up to his lips, kissing his knuckles. "You okay?"

"Yeah... Yeah, I'm okay."

"Lie down with me?"

"All right."

Larry kicks his shoes off, shifts down the bed until he's lying alongside Freddy. He wraps an arm around Freddy's waist and leans in close, pressing their foreheads together.

"You've gone quiet," Freddy says.

"Was just thinking..."

"About what?"

Larry pulls back, runs the pad of his thumb across the bridge of Freddy's nose. Lightly, so lightly, it's like he's barely touching him. The gash has healed well, leaving only a thick, reddish-brown scab in its wake.

"Oh," Freddy murmurs. "That."

That's the funny thing about pain: once it's over, it's hard to recall just how intense it was at the time. Perhaps that's why Freddy wants the reminder; so he can never underestimate Larry's capacity for cruelty again.

If Freddy is harboring any resentment about that night, then he never lets it show. He never allows the fear and the hatred to seep into his voice. Maybe he thinks he deserved it. Maybe, deep down, Larry thinks so too.

And isn't that the cruelest part of all?

They lie there together in the silence of the motel room, breathing in the same air, lost in thought, until Freddy whispers, "Larry?"

"What?"

"Do you hate me?"

After a long pause, Larry quietly admits, "Sometimes."

There is a flash of sadness in Freddy's eyes, but then he drops his gaze and nods, like he knew the answer all along.

"Do you love me too?"

"You know I do."

"You mean that?"

"I wouldn't say it, if I didn't mean it."

"People say things they don't mean all the time."

"Yeah," Larry agrees, trying to keep the hatred out of his own voice. "But they don't risk their necks skipping town overnight with you, now do they?"

"No..."

"You think I do this with every stranger I meet?"

Freddy smiles. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Is that what you do?" Larry asks, stroking Freddy's shoulder with his thumb. "Take up with anybody who pays you a little attention?"

"Well, I don't run away with 'em, if that's what you're asking..."

"That's _not_ what I'm asking."

"In that case, I don't think you wanna know the answer," Freddy says, with a smirk and a quirk of his eyebrows.

"How many?"

Freddy shrugs, starting to laugh.

"How many?"

"Lost count."

"You know what? You're right. I don't wanna fuckin' hear about it."

Freddy nuzzles Larry's neck, still laughing. "But I'm all yours now."

"Are you?" Larry's tone is scathing, sarcastic. 

"I swear to God, I'll never look at another man again."

"You better not."

"I wouldn't," Freddy says, staring up at him doe-eyed, and then, "What would you do if I did?"

"I'd kill him."

"Yeah?"

"And I'd kneecap the son of a bitch first."

"Shit," breathes Freddy, somewhere between horrified and fascinated, "Kiss me."

Larry does. Hard and rough and urgent.

Between kisses, he reaches down beneath the sheets, takes Freddy's half-hard cock in his hand and squeezes.

"Oh fuck," Freddy moans into Larry's mouth. "All yours, Larry. I'm all yours."

"All mine," Larry repeats.

The kid shivers, rolls his hips twice in quick succession.

"Show me,"  Freddy hisses.

"Show you what?"

"That I'm yours."

Larry lets go of Freddy, starts to shed his t-shirt and pants.

The tired old mattress shifts beneath them as Freddy reaches for the lube in the nightstand drawer. He hands it to Larry and rolls over onto his side in silent invitation.

"Open," Larry says, nudging Freddy's legs apart. Freddy does as he's told. "Good boy."

Larry's words earn him a desperate sound.

He uncaps the tube, smears some of its contents across Freddy's inner thighs, and Freddy inhales sharply at the sensation.

"Okay?" Larry asks.

"Yeah. Just cold, that's all."

"Soon warm you up. Gonna fuck you this way tonight, all right?"

"All right, Larry."

Larry moves in behind him, spooning him, and eases his cock between Freddy's legs, just where his thighs are thickest. It isn't quite enough, given how skinny Freddy is, but Freddy shifts one leg forward a little, and suddenly it's perfect.

"Oh God, kid," Larry moans into his hair, his hips pitching forward involuntarily. The smell of Freddy's shampoo on his skin only serves to fuel Larry's desire.

He starts to move, grabbing onto Freddy's hip, holding him in place while he fucks his thighs. Freddy makes a helpless little noise in the back of his throat and brings one arm up, reaching back to pull Larry in closer.

" _Larry."_

"What?"

_"Please."_

He lets Freddy take his hand and guide it back to the bruising on his ribs. Freddy presses both of their hands down, hard enough to really hurt this time, maybe even hard enough to make fresh marks, but Larry is careful to temper it with soft kisses to his neck.

Does Larry have it the wrong way around? Is the pain supposed to be a form of punishment? Some penance for what he's done to Larry, for what he's doing _with_ Larry, this paragon of virtue, compromised and corrupted so easily by a man as morally bankrupt as him? 

Freddy cranes his neck back to kiss him, open-mouthed and hungry. "Fuck me," he chokes out, all spit and bruised lips. "Larry. Fuck me. Fucking use me. Anything you want, man. Just take it. Anything you want."

And how is Larry supposed to control himself when the kid talks like that?

Freddy takes his hand away so he can jerk himself off in time to Larry's thrusts and they move together in the sickly orange glow of the bedside lamp, gasping and moaning and cursing, until Freddy starts crying out.

"Oh fuck, oh God, Larry, I'm gonna-"

Larry clings to him tighter.

With a final shout, Freddy comes, his whole body tensing up, thighs clamping down, tight and hot and unbearable, until he drags Larry over the edge with him.

 


End file.
